


Scream

by Tcharlatan



Category: Dir en grey, Sadie (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Band Fic, Biting, Bloodplay, Consensual Non-Consent, Cutting, Fluff, Light Bondage, M/M, Masochism, Oral Sex, POV First Person, Rough Sex, Voice Kink, Workplace Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-08
Updated: 2012-12-08
Packaged: 2017-11-20 14:50:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/586556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tcharlatan/pseuds/Tcharlatan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It doesn’t need to be spoken, doesn’t need to be discussed and agreed upon; we both want it and need it and crave it, so we will open ourselves up to it. There's something wonderfully freeing about a soundproof room...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scream

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of pure fiction. I do not personally know any of the members of Dir en grey or Sadie, and do not profit from this work.

_Caught up in this madness – too blind to see – woke animal feelings in me. Took over my sense and I lost control; I'll taste your blood tonight. You know I make you wanna scream…_

Such a lovely spring night. The air is cool and clean, rich with the promise of fresh beginnings, and there’s a sense of expectancy hanging all around as the world readies itself for new life. Everything is fragile as it stirs from winter’s sleep, yet carries with it a distinct sense of determination, rising with renewed vigor towards the future. Energy crackles through every living being in this feral season – the need to touch, the need to connect and create, the need to _mate_ – and I’m no exception. I’ve something special planned for such an enchanting evening. Anticipation runs hot through my veins as I pass through the studio’s heavy back door, kicking aside the rock that had propped it open for me and letting it fall shut, locked, behind me.

There’s sanctity in this place afterhours; an odd silence that seems to whisper faint remnants of the day’s noise. The music, the chatter, the camaraderie that falls to artistic debate, the pressure and the struggle to spill one’s soul into a handful of minutes worth of words and sound, knowing always that if you fail or fall short, you’ll be cast out from this world to forever go unheard. I pass through empty halls, the ghosts of so many songs and so many musicians and so much residual emotion moving through me; undisturbed for now, though I intend to incite them soon enough. The door to the sound room I seek stands open when I arrive, and I push it shut behind me, engaging the lock and testing once to ensure its security. Not that anyone comes by here so late at night, but there’s something to be said for prudence.

Through the thick glass separating the sound booth from the recording room, movement catches my eye, and I stop for a moment to observe my lover as he fusses over a sloppy stack of papers, oblivious.

Kyo is an easy man to love, as evidenced by the fact that tens – if not hundreds – of thousands of people, who’ve never even met him, manage to do so purely for the virtue of his passion and his prose. He’s a magnificent mess of contradictions; a vulgar romanticist, a revolutionary old soul, a profane prophet who speaks openly and honestly but remains shrouded in mystery, wickedly sweet to the core and possessed with a fragile sort of inner strength. One simply can’t help but be drawn to the sheer force of his will, though the fact that he’s pretty damn easy on the eyes is certainly worth notice as well. To be _in_ love with him, however – to enter into a proper relationship, in which a certain level of knowing and understanding the other is absolutely vital to a partnership of equals – is a far sight trickier.

Being with Kyo demands a certain appreciation for his voice, and I don’t just mean his singing. How to explain… When he introduces himself as a vocalist he isn’t simply identifying his job; he’s defining himself, describing the very essence of his entire being. It’s not what he _does,_ it’s what he _is._ He is a lyricist and a poet as well, gifted with a talent for painting a thousand pictures with a single word, but when even his vast vocabulary fails him, it’s his range and skill as a _vocalist_ that he relies on to communicate. This is why he and I work together so well; I can hear him to an extent that most others can’t, so I can tend to the wants and needs that he can’t describe precisely enough for others to understand. Whether because he doesn’t want to say it out loud or because he simply can’t articulate it properly, or even if he doesn’t fully understand it himself, some words just can’t be spoken plainly, but his intentions are always carried in the more subtle nuances of his voice for those who know to listen.

Of course, our love is not always so terribly profound. We also work well because he dislikes delicacy in people and I am, at the very heart of myself, decidedly indelicate. I value devotion in my partners and he’s got a notorious stubborn streak; an unyielding obstinacy that extends to his relationships as much as anything else. Both of these traits have bitten us in the ass more times than either of us cares to count, but somehow, we manage to be exactly what the other needs. Compatibility so deep it’s almost scary.

He senses the weight of my gaze and stops what he was doing, looking around warily until he spots me in the shadows of the sound booth. Our eyes meet, and he goes very still. He knows what’s going to happen tonight; why I sought him out here instead of waiting for him to come back to our apartment. There are some things we simply can’t do at home without risking the neighbors calling the cops on us, and there’s something wonderfully freeing about a soundproof room. It doesn’t need to be spoken, doesn’t need to be discussed and agreed upon; we both want it and need it and _crave_ it, so we will open ourselves up to it. Even through the glass and obscuring darkness, he can feel my excitement, my anticipation, and it reaches out to touch him like lightning crackling between us.

I let my fingers trail over the control panel as I move towards the door, surreptitiously pressing a wide green button in passing before I cross into the recording booth with him. He tenses as I approach and I know – as I always know – that I’ll have to be a little rough to get him where I need him. He wants it as much as I do, and we both know it, but he’ll still put up a bit of a fuss for pride’s sake. First, though, I raise one hand to his cheek, resting the other on his chest, and lean in to kiss him gently. He sighs softly and I hear the contentment in the sound as he kisses me back, his hands coming to wrap around my hips. No matter what the flavor of our games, I’ll always begin this way, because I do love him and I hope to never take for granted that he knows that.

He relaxes a shade and I take the chance; hooking one foot behind his ankles and pulling his feet out from under him. We’re caught in a wild tangle for a minute while he flails and tries to catch himself by grabbing me, and I hold him by the front of the shirt to keep him from hurting himself even as I push him down. He bucks against me, growling – a challenge if I’ve ever heard one – and very nearly kicks me off before I settle all of my weight on him to keep him pinned while I drag his shirt up over his head, twisting it tight around his hands. It’s not the most elegant solution, but the cloth does protect his wrists from the industrial strength zip-ties I find nearby and use to bind him to a heavy piece of equipment. His arms yank twice when I release them, making even the sturdy steel box shudder a bit, but his hands are out of play, leaving him vulnerable and ready to be used.

I sit up and smile down at him, loving the feral lines his face has taken on as he snarls up at me. “You’re so beautiful, Kyo… I’m going to ruin you, tonight. You remember your safeword?”

His entire body shudders underneath me, and I know it’s because he’s thrilled at the prospect of needing such a precaution. When he responds, begrudging though it is, his voice has taken on that husky, lust-ridden rumble that drives me absolutely mad. “…Ash.”

I smooth my hands up his chest, towards his shoulders. “And if you want me to slow down?”

“Wither.”

It’s all the confirmation I need, and we both know now that until he utters one of those two words, I won’t stop, regardless of whatever else he might do or say. I curl my fingers into claws and drag them back down his chest hard enough to leave instantly vicious welts. He hisses, arching up against my hands, but it’s just an introductory gesture. I slide my hands down around to his lower back, digging in my nails as I duck my head down to sink my teeth into the fleshiest part of his left pectoral, biting down until I taste blood. His entire body spasms against the pain and I have to clamp my legs down on his hips to keep from being thrown off. His anguished roar echoes in the tiny room, wild and barely restrained, and the sound of it registers directly in my groin.

I hear his shoes scrabbling at the concrete floor behind me, hear the equipment he’s tied to thump with every frantic jerk of his arms as he tries to get out from under me. I slide down and bite him again, on the sensitive lower curve of his ribs, and the scream changes pitch to something higher, something laced with desperation. The barriers are starting to crack, slowly but surely, and he yearns for more. I bite him over and again – on his arms, over his left hip bone, whatever I can get my teeth around – my nails carving paths down his back, and it wrenches sounds from him that would shatter a lesser man’s throat, every one of them urging me on. I run my tongue over every new bite mark, smooth my hands over every new welt and laceration, soothing ever so briefly before introducing more pain.

“ _SHIT_ , MAO- AAGH! STOP, _STOP!!!_ ”he howls, twisting wildly against my hold as blood pours out all across his torso.

The hell I will. I claw bloody lines down his back as my teeth find his belly button. The skin here is harder to get a grip on, with every muscle in his abdomen gone rigid and him thrashing around, but I manage to get a mouthful of soft flesh and bite down until I taste hot copper. His answering wail shakes the air around us, carrying so much agony even my heart constricts to hear it, and I can feel the heat of his arousal throbbing insistently against my crotch through our jeans.

It comes as a surprise to very few people that Kyo is a masochist. Physical pain takes him to a place he can never reach within himself otherwise, where agony and ecstasy bleed into one another and lift him to new heights. He feels that allowing another to provide that pain is the most profound display of devotion he can offer. Unfortunately, when he’s told others of his predilections in the past, they responded with _toys_ ; whips and chains and other standard fare for sadomasochistic play. They didn’t understand – and he couldn’t find the words to tell them – that that isn’t what he needs. He’s never said as much, never even managed to find the words to tell _me_ , because even he couldn’t figure out why it wasn’t right, but I’m certain such props only left him feeling hurt and distanced from his partners. Kyo allows his flesh to be broken by his lovers because he wants to be closer to them, not because he wants to feel beaten.

That’s why, when I do tear him apart like this, I use my teeth and my nails more than anything else. I press myself into his skin until it splits apart and lets me in just that much closer to his heart; taste his lifeblood on my tongue and touch my darkness to his own until they mingle and become one.

I let my hand slip into his back pocket and fish out the little piece of plastic-cased steel I know will be there. It’s always there; for the same reason the studio’s back door is always propped in when he’s here, for the same reason there’s always a bundle of zip-ties somewhere in this room, and for the same reason he allows me to knock him to the ground and tie him to a speaker when we both know he could stop me if he really wanted to. It’s there because he needs this to happen – _craves_ it enough to ensure that he will always be ready for it – and its presence reassures me that, for all his resistance, I am not abusing him. He just needs to feel overwhelmed. I flick the protective cap off the razor blade and hold it between my pointer and index fingers, feeling his eyes on me as I dip my tongue into his navel to collect the blood pooling there.

It’s odd… before I got together with Kyo, I didn’t really have much taste for blood, and I certainly wasn’t any kind of sadist. I suppose that hasn’t changed overmuch; it’s only him I’ve ever felt driven to do this with. Not just because _he_ needs it, either; I’m not so self sacrificing that I’ll play these games if I don’t enjoy them as well. To be honest, I think I’ve come to crave these encounters almost as much as he does. I suppose it’s just the effect he has on people. His blood is smooth as honey on my tongue, and there’s just something about his pain that’s utterly addictive.

“Scream for me,” I murmur against his belly.

When I drag my hands down his sides, the blade draws a clean line from his underarm to his hip – sun-kissed golden skin splitting open to give way to rich crimson in a way that always enthralls me – and he lets out an almost inhuman shriek. I have to move quickly to keep him from bucking into it and cutting himself too deeply, but I don’t let haste make me sloppy. My fingertips provide a guide, ensuring that the cut will bleed – _is_ bleeding, profusely – without going so deep as to scar. I follow the line back up with my mouth, nipping and sucking at the wound, and he whimpers in response. He’s shaking badly, and his chest his heaving with deep, frantic breaths, and I have to time the next cut carefully, waiting for a brief lull in his panting to slide the blade from his left collarbone down to the right side of his waist. He screams again, a sharp almost-sob hitching at the end, and his eyelashes are glistening with unshed tears, but his hips are rutting up against mine and I know he’s getting damn close to that place inside that he’s reaching for.

Raising the razor blade to hold it between my front teeth, I slide down to undress his lower half, throwing his shoes, socks, pants, and underwear aside. I guess I should have done that earlier, and he might be a little pissed later about how much blood I got on his jeans, but there’s nothing for it now. Standing, I kick off my own clothes quickly before settling onto him again, this time with my legs on either side of his shoulders. I hook one hand under his neck to lift his head and he growls a bit, knowing what’s coming next and not really appreciating it, but still opens up when I press the head of my cock against his lips.

Kyo is not necessarily fond of giving head. He doesn’t _hate_ it – I wouldn’t be doing this if it really upset him – but he says he doesn’t like the taste of it, and avoids it when he can. Personally, I think it just tweaks his pride a bit to have to take another man’s dick into his mouth. Either way, his distaste for the act doesn’t stop him from being absolutely _amazing_ at it, and I’m certainly not above taking advantage of him just a little now that I have him tied down and desperate for me.

Wet heat seals around my ache and my eyes roll back as rapture washes over me, electric pleasure coursing up my spine and racing across my every nerve. I brace my other hand against the speaker he’s tied to and rock my hips with as much restraint as I can muster, driving myself slowly into him again and again as his lips and tongue work around my flesh. I touch against the back of his throat and press further still, forcing him to swallow me and knowing – fucking _loving –_ that his voice will be roughened by it for the next couple days. The softer sounds he makes now – the faint, wet squeaks of suction, the panting through his nose, the little grunts when I push in harder than he’s expecting – set my blood boiling just as much as his screams did. Hell comes out of his mouth, but it’s Heaven on the inside.

I can’t indulge for too long. It feels too fucking good, and I don’t want to finish this way, so when I feel myself approaching the edge of my control, I force myself to pull out. He coughs a little, panting, and watches me with hooded eyes as I slide myself down his body, running my hands over smooth flesh gone slick with so much blood and sweat. My own thighs become streaked with red as well as I move, and his breath quickens a bit when he sees it, a heady flush spreading over his cheeks. He’s so beautiful this way…

Collecting the razor from my teeth once more, I settle between his knees and do my best to hold his hips down with my free hand, knowing he’s going to thrash again for this bit. I hear his breath catch in his throat and feel his entire body go tense, just before I kiss the blade to his flesh once more. I move very slowly here, starting at his hip bone and curving in to trace down the gloriously sensitive skin at his inner thighs. For a split second, his muscles shiver involuntarily against the touch, but then the white hot agony of the razor registers and he goes into frenetic convulsions beneath me. His screams reach an almost hysterical pitch, and it’s all I can do to keep him from kicking into the blade before his voice resolves itself into intelligible words.

“ _WITHER_ ,” he cries, and I pull the blade back immediately but he keeps panting, “ _WITHER, WITH-unh! Wither, wither, wither, wither…_ ”

I keep him pinned, looking up at him to gauge how much of a break he needs, rubbing his uninjured leg gently with my palm. His voice subsides to groaning, eyes squeezed shut, and he’s writhing endlessly. Not straining or seeking escape anymore, just moving, trying to feel every part of his body and mine all at once, and I know he’s reached the point we’ve been driving towards; where his pleasure and his pain are at their peak, completely indistinguishable from one another. His barriers are shattered and he’s emotionally flayed wide open for me. Taking the razor between my teeth again, I lean over and fish a small bottle out of a pocket in my discarded pants. Lube spills out over my shaking fingers and I sit back on my heels, reaching between my legs to prepare myself as quickly as I can. For a moment, the slick sound of me fingering myself and his harsh panting are the only sounds between us; an almost eerie quiet, as if we’ve reached the eye of our storm.

“Mao,” he pants, arching his hips off the ground, hands flexing anxiously in their bonds. “Mao, please… hurry, I need-… I need… _nnnh!_ ”

Ahhh, how could I possibly refuse him when he asks that way; when his voice takes on that desperate, pleading pitch that speaks so loudly of how much he needs me? I take the razor out of my mouth and lean forward, cutting through the plastic ties that keep him bound with one short swipe. I barely have time to throw the blade to one side, out of harm’s way, before he’s on top of me, hands fisted in my hair, mouth on mine so frantically I feel my lip cut against his teeth. I wrap my arms around his shoulders and hang on as he rolls me back, pressing my thighs open with his own, rutting blindly against my ass until – by combined chance and experience – he finds my entrance and drives into me.

I cry out into his mouth, digging my nails into his back, and he groans as he pounds into me with wild abandon. My world shakes apart as he strikes at my core again and again, power and pleasure and pressure spreading out to my fingers and toes and all I can do is rock back against him and ride out the tempest. He breaks our kiss to breathe and I bite down on the first part of him I can reach – the straining curve of his neck and shoulder – tasting blood again and reveling in the almost violent pace it spurs him into. It’s perfect, brutal and wonderful the way that only he has ever been for me, and I want it to last forever, even as it drives me ever closer to madness. I hold back as long as I can, but he’s unrelenting and I know we’re both too far gone, too desperate to draw this out much longer.

Ecstasy washes over me all at once and I go blind from it, sensation flooding my system until all I can hear, feel, smell, or taste is _him_ , everywhere, everything, all around and throughout my entire being. His body shudders violently against my own as I clamp down around him, I hear the strained cross of a whimper, a grunt, and a groan, and I feel his heat flood my passage. Still he keeps moving, straining to be deeper and deeper inside of me, drawing both of our orgasms out until it almost hurts. I release the death grip my nails and teeth had on him and relax into his motions, absorbing them, kissing and stroking the places I’d previously been biting and clawing.

“Shhh…” I murmur against his ear, stroking his hair and wiping away the tears I know have streaked their way down his cheeks.

It takes some doing, but gradually, he slows to a stop, resting against me as we both work to catch our breath and steady our pounding hearts. In this moment, we both find a peace so profound that it feels as if nothing can ever touch it, as if nothing exists beyond us, wrapped in and around eachother, covered in his blood, sweat, and tears and my cum. We are closer now than we can ever be otherwise, closer than any heartfelt confession or hours of sweet, gentle lovemaking could ever make us, both of us basking in the knowledge that for one glorious instant, it felt like our very souls touched. It’s overwhelming, and neither of us can stand to let go until long after the fluids have dried into a truly horrid mess, but even being caked in blood and spunk can’t ruin my blissful mood.

Finally, he manages to release his hold on me, moving back with a barely-contained wince. I smile and stroke his cheek and he gives me a small smile in return before standing with obvious effort, holding out one hand to help me up as well. We dress in silence – him sighing softly at the bloodstains marring the waist of his jeans, me flashing him my brightest smile in response – then clean up every last trace of our joining. He collects his things from the table, his every motion slow and careful, and I take the time to head into the sound booth. I hit a button on the control panel, then a second, and after a moment, a tray slides out with a still-warm disc resting in it. I slip it into one of the many empty cases lying around the room and tuck it into my jacket pocket for a rainy day. He snorts a little and we leave together, our shoulders brushing against one another in the most public affection either of us is comfortable with.

“You look good in my blood,” he murmurs as we exit the studio.

 “Not as good as you,” I counter with a wink.

His mouth quirks up. “Hn. …Will you help me patch up when we get home?”

I smile at the softness of his voice. He told me once, a few months after we first got together, that he would never tell me he loves me; that no matter how much I mean to him, the word just hurts him too much. He is sorry for it, I think, and at times it actually seems to bother him that he can’t say it to me. On the rare occasion that I declare my affection for him, he always takes the time to hold me as close as I’ll fit against him and kiss me until we’re both dizzy for lack of air, to show me the sentiment is returned. He never seems to realize that, even without saying the word itself, he tells me he loves me a dozen times a day.

“Of course.”

 

_Some live repressing their instinctive feelings; protest the way we're built, don't point the blame on me. Cherishing, those feelings pleasuring; cover me, unwanted clemency. Scream till there's silence, scream while there's life left – vanishing. Scream from the pleasure, unmask your desire – perishing…_

 

 

* * *

_The song lyrics used at the beginning and end _([Scream](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ViIJC4tdWxo)) _ are property of Avenged Sevenfold, and I do not profit from their use._


End file.
